


Luminescent

by beaubete



Series: Photogenic/Luminescent [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, sex blogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The further internet adventures of Chromogenic32 and his boyfriend, commonly referred to "Good God, those abs!".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luminescent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/gifts).



> Written for beili in thanks for her incredibly lovely Christmas card (you can see it linked to Photogenic!). Thank you, dear!

Light spills across the room like water, golden and thick as honey.  Bond watches Q putter for a moment, adjusting this dial, tweaking that reflecting screen, until he reaches above his head to tie back the lamp’s crystal pulls.  Rainbows flash across Q’s face, catching on the rim of his glasses for a moment, and Bond grins, reaching down to tug at his cock lazily.  He might be broader than Q—the borrowed shirt all but drips from his shoulders like a child in an art smock—but they’re close in height; Q is only perhaps an inch or so shorter, actually, and the tailored shirt hits him just above mid-thigh.  Q pouts at him but doesn’t stop stretching.  It’s truly a lovely view.

“You’re not meant to get started before I’m finished setting up!” Q scolds, but he’s not making any moves to do much more than watch as Bond strokes himself in slow, unhurried pulls.

“Then hurry up and be finished.”

Q sniffs delicately.  “I can’t expect you to know or care much about the art of photography—”

“You’re taking dirty pictures of me so you can brag on the internet.”

“Yes, but they’re going to be really nice dirty pictures,” Q says.  His grin is a dart of quicksilver, tucked inside his lip.  He reaches over to adjust the white reflector one more time, then leans above the camera, peering into the view screen.  “Budge up a little bit—I can still see your face.”

“Can’t you just edit that bit out?” Bond grouses, obediently dropping his cock to wiggle up the mattress until Q gives him a thumbs up.

“It’s easier if I don’t have to,” Q tells him.  He moves around the bedroom like an overprotective parent, touching his fingertips to things before pulling back; Bond doesn’t notice anything different until—

Suddenly, the sun shifts, slides somehow into syrup.  It does magnificent things to Q’s skin, dapples him sweet and apple-flushed, catches in his hair like a halo that belies his wicked smile and the way his cock is hanging out from the edge of the shirt.  He looks like the most angelic, most beautiful naughty schoolboy in the history of naughty schoolboys, and Bond’s fingers clench in the sheets with wanting.  “Now?”

“Now.”

Q wants him to wank off for him, wants him to play with his cock so he can show his eight thousand—and fifty three, Q would cut in here, specificity—followers how he’s managed to capture Bond in his bed after months of posting photos of himself in lacy knickers and confiding in his crush.  It’s the only fitting end to the story, except that the story is ongoing, will remain ongoing for a very long time if Bond has his way.  He licks his lips and Q smiles at him, eyes rapt.

“I feel odd just sitting here with my cock in hand while you stare at it,” Bond complains.

Q’s laugh is spritely.  “Oh, come off it.  I know for a fact you’re a tosser—you woke me up the other night rubbing it on my arse!”

“Well, you can’t see it, but if you could you wouldn’t blame me.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it before.  I edit all of my photos before they go up.”  Q’s voice is confident, just this side of smarmy, and.

“And do you wank to them?  Photos of yourself?”  The thought sends a spike of hot blood through Bond’s chest, up from his cock and down through his arm, connecting the circuit through the hand that’s idly toying with his bollocks now.  

“Of course.”

“You little tart,” Bond says, and Q’s grin widens.

There’s a bottle of lube tucked in by his hip; Bond spreads his knees so the camera can see his fingers gently rubbing at the crease between his thigh and groin as he fishes for it.  It’s sticky-slick, the cap stuck closed from frequent use, and so he uses his teeth to pop the top, tasting artificial fruit as he does.  Flavoured, because neither of them trusts Q to be able to keep from daubing at him with his tongue when he’s done—if he makes it that far, Bond thinks to himself.  It’s still lube, plastic raspberry flavour or no, shockingly cool when it drips onto his hand and his cock, immediately sleek and glossy feeling.  He spreads his legs and the sheets rustle beneath him.

Across the length of the bed, Q’s a portrait of agonised patience.  It’s in his fingertips, drumming on the footboard in staccato morse code that speaks only of his restlessness, in the curl of his back as he tips infinitesimally closer to Bond as though he can’t help it, in the way he’s bitten his lips a cherry, sore red.  Bond’s cock sympathises with that colour, with the ache on that face, with the craving in those liquid eyes.  He squeezes it and it’s Q who sighs, inches and miles away.  Bond groans.

“I don’t know why you’re punishing yourself like this, my darling,” he tells Q just to watch those clever hands curl around his frustration.  “Don’t you wish you were over here, too?  With your hands on my chest—don’t think I haven’t noticed that clever little camera; can you see what you’re looking for from there?”  Bond trails his fingers up and up and up, leaving his cock wet with lube to strum across a nipple with his thumb almost forgetfully.  Q’s hands clench again, and Bond wants to take them into his own, to work those tight knots back into the quick, broad palms and sturdy fingers he knows.  He wants to suck until Q’s squirming in his lap, and since he can’t, he touches his own mouth, tastes the raspberry and sweet oiliness on his lips.  Q makes a strangled sound, or a sound to say he’d like to strangle Bond, and his knuckles are white around the end of the bed.

They haven’t bothered with a towel; Q’s bought new sheets especially for this, soft and cool in the late afternoon.  The window’s open, and outside Bond can faintly hear the sounds of London, but in this room the only sounds are their breaths, his deep and groaning, Q’s quick and raspy.  Bond wraps his hand around his cock again and sighs at the slick touch.  “I think if I’m putting on a show here, I deserve one in return,” Bond tells him, and Q pauses, considering.  His fingertips flutter, touching the buttons of the shirt; he’s hard, leaving a drib of wet on the tail that makes Bond’s mouth water.

“Okay.”

And Q reaches under the shirt, showing only flashes of wrist and tantalising hints of more as he begins to touch himself, to play with his cock under Bond’s shirt.  Bond’s breath escapes in a gust.  “Good boy.”  Bond’s the one nearly panting like a dog—“Good, good, good boy.”

This is what seeing Q is like: sex games that leave Bond’s blood fizzing with arousal.  Q strokes himself enthusiastically, spreads his feet and bends his knees for purchase and grabs the footboard again, this time closer to Bond’s outstretched toes.  He’s making sweet, gasping sounds, so worked up and eager that Bond’s whole chest shivers watching.  “Ah,” Q says, quick and panicky, “Ah, ah.”

“Don’t come,” Bond tells him.  “Don’t come, don’t come.  Get up here.  Get up here, you little slag, you sweet little slut.  Get up here.”

Q scrambles like a child, obedient and mindless of the camera, of lighting and angles as he clambers up the bed.  Their mouths latch onto one another, their lips meeting surprisingly sweet and gentle for the rabbit-fucks of Q’s hips as he straddles Bond’s chest and bows over his face to kiss him.  His arse is perfect palmfuls in Bond’s hands, the valley between body-hot and sensitive.  Q squirms on him and Bond leans him back, guides him with stern hands, feeds his cock into Q’s body and pulls him flush and tight.

Q gives a whispery sigh as he rocks on Bond’s lap, riding close and intimate.  He circles Bond’s head with his arms, the weight of his head heavy against Bond’s where their foreheads touch.  He’s so fucking beautiful.  So beautiful.  Bond lifts his knees until Q tips forward, slides back into the pillows mounded at the head of the bed and he can draw out, farther and farther until barely the tip is inside, until he can feel the cool room chilling slick, overhot skin, until he can twist just a bit and—Q’s head falls back and he cries long and broken and hungry when Bond thrusts back in, up and in, just the right shade of forceful.  His body accepts Bond’s meekly, a tremor setting up in his thighs where Bond spreads them, palms his knees and holds him open to watch his cock disappearing inside.  Q squirms, and Bond fucks into him again, and again, and again.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Bond tells him then, and he is—he’s sweating now, pale skin going splotchy red with lust, hair curling and sticky with sweat, mouth open and bitten and nearly drooling.  Q squints behind glasses that have got knocked askew somehow, tangled in his hair and dangling loose over one ear as Bond’s thrusts lift him trembling with each powerful push.  Pretty, pretty, pretty.

They’re sticking together, now, lube not so wet as before; Bond hooks one hand around Q to slow him, to still him, to reach behind with the lube and touch ginger where he’s swollen blood hot and sensitive.  Q stiffens as he rubs the oily smoothness along the edge of his rim, shudders when he applies more cold from the bottle.  They’ll have to write off the sheets—they’re soaking through, perhaps all the way through to the mattress—and something tight knots pleasantly in Bond’s lower belly at the thought: these sheets were bought for fucking on.  He gives an experimental thrust—just a touch more, and Q sighs when he applies it—and pulls Q’s arse down tight around himself again.  

He listens as Q’s voice gets higher, more strident, and Bond almost misses it in the way he’s tangling his fingers in his short blond hair—there’s a beautiful blush forming down the center of Q’s chest, a flush of sex and friction captured and held as Q’s hips begin to lose their careful rocking pattern, the control he’s held since he climbed on top.  He’s close, and it’s easy for Bond to tip him over, to climb on top, to tup him.  Q’s face goes scarlet and he nuzzles in, one arm caught around Bond’s neck for support as the other digs furrows in the thick muscles of Bond’s back and shoulder.  Then Q is yelping, voice muffled by Bond’s shoulder as he presses it with his lips, and he comes between them, smearing and streaking them both.  When Bond takes him in hand, he goes boneless, shaking spent until plaintive, oversensitive whines come.  Bond strokes him through it anyway, and stops when Q is a lump of flesh, sated and quivering beneath him.

That golden light has already faded, the room growing darker with an early dusk—Q’s building is too close to the ones around it; this time of year, he could steal another hour’s sun if he were in the square outside—but Q is dozing sweetly on the pillows, fingers curled around the edge of the case loose and sleeping.  Bond hasn’t come yet, but he can fix that.

Q sleeps like the dead when he’s come, legs parted just a bit to show the glimmering sheen of lube on his skin in the dark vee between them, flat on his stomach with his face tucked into the crook of an arm.  Like this, he’s miles of pale skin, gorgeous in sunlight but even more stunning when Bond reaches over him to turn on the bedside lamp.  His hip bumps Q’s shoulder and Q whines, makes a snuffling sound, and wraps an arm around Bond’s waist, nuzzling in until Bond can feel stubble on his skin.  He reaches down, fond, and Q’s hair is warm and fragrant when he rubs it between his fingers.  They’ll both need a shower once Q manages to pry his boneless, overworked carcass up for food, but for now.

For now, Bond leans back against the pillows and takes his cock in hand again.  For now, he could pierce bricks with this thing, for now he can taste his arousal in the pulse at the back of his tongue.  He strokes himself again and lets his head fall back as he moans.

It’s not going to take much.  It won’t, because even though it’s been a few minutes since he was buried inside his boy, Q’s lying next to him, an inspiration to have one off at the wrist if ever there was one.  His shoulders are broad and taper neatly to a trim waist, a build he hides at work with concealing clothes so old fashioned that even after shopping with him he’s not wholly convinced that they’re not borrowed from someone’s granddad.  The arse below that waist is thick, hips wider than one might expect, again, seeing him clothed; beneath those dowdy jumpers and hideous trousers, Q’s gorgeously fit, tidy in a way that looks as though all of his body has reserved its plushness for the best parts, the hand holds required for pinning him down and riding him into the mattress.  He’s a beautiful wet dream, and he’s sleeping so trustingly by Bond’s side.

That Q finds him as appealing is one of the vast mysteries of the world, and if Q wants a dirty video of Bond wanking, Q will have it.  Bond gives into the temptation to touch, to stroke one hand along the sine wave of Q’s spine as it arches and falls away over the swell of his bottom, and that’s all he needs; his hand speeds on his cock as his breath heaves in his chest, as his eyes flicker closed around the arousal burning its way up his spine.  There’s a fireball sitting in the small of his back, and when Q shifts, presses his curls against his thigh and kisses at the back of his moving knuckles, it ignites, leaves him groaning exquisitely breathless as he comes against his belly, spilling in hard, short pulses that drip from his abdomen, from his throat.  Q laps at the mess in small, dosy licks until he’s clean.

Later, blown up on the monitor of Q’s computer, Bond watches himself pull Q up, watches that tender kiss with a voyeur’s pleasure, and hums with happiness.

“We’re hot,” Q tells him with a little smile.

“That we are,” Bond agrees.  Q wiggles a bit on his lap.  “What, are you already looking for another go?” he asks playfully.

Q huffs, squirming in place.  “No, I’ve got to edit this!  Patience, Mr. ‘I like to show my face on camera unlike every other amateur porn star ever’!”

“Oh-oh, no,” Bond tuts, and where his arms curl around Q’s middle where it twitches with laughter, his skin is almost unbearably warm and sweet.  “Let’s play a game.  I ravish you and you pretend you care about editing that clip with your cock in my mouth.”

“Dirty old man!” Q squeals as Bond tips him back into the bed.  The update can be just a little bit late, Bond reckons.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [亮闪闪先森](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260234) by [purplesheep22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplesheep22/pseuds/purplesheep22)




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